“I had work to hook him and worse to net him,” said Dr. Corney.  “I had to make him believe he was to nurse every soul in the house, you among them, Miss Middleton.”

Willoughby pulled the boy aside.

Crossjay came back to Clara heavier in looks than his limbs had been.  She dropped her letter in the hall-box, and took his hand to have a private hug of him.  When they were alone, she said:  “Crossjay, my dear, my dear! you look unhappy.”

“Yes, and who wouldn’t be, and you’re not to marry Sir Willoughby!” his voice threatened a cry.  “I know you’re not, for Dr. Corney says you are going to leave.”

“Did you so very much wish it, Crossjay?”

“I should have seen a lot of you, and I sha’n’t see you at all, and I’m sure if I’d known I wouldn’t have—­And he has been and tipped me this.”

Crossjay opened his fist in which lay three gold pieces.

“That was very kind of him,” said Clara.

“Yes, but how can I keep it?”

“By handing it to Mr. Whitford to keep for you.”

“Yes, but, Miss Middleton, oughtn’t I to tell him?  I mean Sir Willoughby.”

“What?”

“Why, that I”—­Crossjay got close to her—­“why, that I, that I—­you know what you used to say.  I wouldn’t tell a lie, but oughtn’t I, without his asking . . . and this money!  I don’t mind being turned out again.”

“Consult Mr. Whitford,” said Clara.

“I know what you think, though.”

“Perhaps you had better not say anything at present, dear boy.”

“But what am I to do with this money?”

Crossjay held the gold pieces out as things that had not yet mingled with his ideas of possession.

“I listened, and I told of him,” he said.  “I couldn’t help listening, but I went and told; and I don’t like being here, and his money, and he not knowing what I did.  Haven’t you heard?  I’m certain I know what you think, and so do I, and I must take my luck.  I’m always in mischief, getting into a mess or getting out of it.  I don’t mind, I really don’t, Miss Middleton, I can sleep in a tree quite comfortably.  If you’re not going to be here, I’d just as soon be anywhere.  I must try to earn my living some day.  And why not a cabin-boy?  Sir Cloudesley Shovel was no better.  And I don’t mind his being wrecked at last, if you’re drowned an admiral.  So I shall go and ask him to take his money back, and if he asks me I shall tell him, and there.  You know what it is:  I guessed that from what Dr. Corney said.  I’m sure I know you’re thinking what’s manly.  Fancy me keeping his money, and you not marrying him!  I wouldn’t mind driving a plough.  I shouldn’t make a bad gamekeeper.  Of course I love boats best, but you can’t have everything.”

“Speak to Mr. Whitford first,” said Clara, too proud of the boy for growing as she had trained him, to advise a course of conduct opposed to his notions of manliness, though now that her battle was over she would gladly have acquiesced in little casuistic compromises for the sake of the general peace.